


Jeeves and the Stiff Bird

by brief_serendipity



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Black Comedy, Gen, Murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-15 16:00:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2234937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brief_serendipity/pseuds/brief_serendipity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's one thing to read about murderers in books, it's entirely another to encounter them... and then murder the blighters yourself. Bertie and Jeeves have got a corpse on their hands and need to figure out a way to dispose of the blasted thing. The task might have been easier if Lady Florence Craye hadn't taken a shine to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Jeeves!” I cried, throwing open the flat door and barreling in with all the reckless abandon of the 4:30 Express run off the tracks. “Jeeves, I- He’s- I’ve killed the murderer!”

Ever the understated gent, Jeeves came oiling out of the kitchen on silent feet. “Sir?” He had one eyebrow raised no more than an eighth of an inch. I could hardly believe it. I mean, when one comes in, laying bare the blackest mark he’s yet to earn upon the soul, one hardly expects his fellow man to treat it as though one has simply sauntered by with a note that the daffodils in Hyde Park are in bloom! It deserved a solid quarter inch raising of the brow at the very least. I might have mentioned as much to Jeeves were the Woosterly tum not twisting itself into knots over the whole affair.

Oh, dash it! I’ve gone and made a bloomer not two paragraphs in, haven’t I? Dumping you into the _media_ of the _in res_. Frightfully sorry, but such a tale of woe, villainy, love, and murder can scarce commence without a dash of excitement. But now I’ve got your attention, eh? ‘Bertram,’ you might find yourself saying - I’m almost certain we’re on terms of Christian names if you’re running the glad e. across the pages and words penned by one Wooster, B. - ‘Bertram, how the devil did all of this come on? _Murder_ , old sardine? _You_?’ I don’t imagine anyone could have been more incredulous than this Wooster, and I’m the chap who managed to do the deed.

You see, it all started one morning in May when Jeeves brought in my usual breakfast tray along with the paper.

“Hmm,” I hummed darkly, the brow furrowed as I cast the gaze across the society pages. “Rummy business this ‘Stabbing Streaker,’ Jeeves. He’s got another girl and traumatized half the population of Camden. What is the world coming to, I ask you, that a blighter might go about offing perfectly respectable young ladies in the altogether?”

“One could not say, sir,” Jeeves answered grimly. “The person must be possessed of some sickness of the mind to think that either activity is acceptable.”

“Oh! They’ve got a drawing of him now.” I studied the sketch. “He looks like an absolute cad, the very last word in vil- I say, Jeeves… do you think he looks a bit like Oofy Prosser?”

“The resemblance to Mr. Prosser did not escape me, sir.”

I grimaced, having seen Oofy by accident in the locker room on more than one occasion and regretting each encounter. I won’t say Oofy’s the _worst_ looking fellow, but when you’re a miserly pill who can’t be bothered to chip in £5 for the local orphanage when they’re rallying ‘round for donations, the physical’s all you’ve really got left, and Alexander Charles Prosser was a chap possessed of more pimples of the literal and metaphorical variety than the greasiest youth I’d ever met. We’ve all wondered if it might not be the generosity sort of oozing out of him on occasion. Not that Oofy isn’t a brilliant chap to have about if you’ve got change to spare in your pocket book. He’s a decent enough chum to those of us in the Drones, but a man really must extend the charitable hand downward to the less fortunate now and again.

I decided it might be best not to go on pondering on Oofy Prosser murdering beazels in his spare time. “Yes, well, we might all take solace in the knowledge that Mr. Prosser runs like a bear with cinder blocks strapped to its paws.” I fancied he might well have the same attitude and approach as such a creature on the matter of running, anyway: snarling coupled with a spot of thrashing about. “What sort of day is it going to be, then, Jeeves?”

“A somewhat humid morning with low stratus clouds leading into a light drizzle this afternoon, sir,” Jeeves replied, tone lightening considerably. “You may wish to take your umbrella should you be stepping out.”

“Yes, I think I’ll lunch at the Drones today.” I set the paper aside to dig into my bacon and eggs. “Talking of Oofy, he’s been promising to bring some cousin or other from the country ‘round while the lad’s in town. Taking in the city life, you know?” I suspected we’d have another Gussie Fink-Nottle on our hands, but I was willing to give any chap a chance, and Gussie wasn’t really a terrible sort of bird once you got past the newts.

Granted, a lot of Gussie was the newts, not leaving terribly much after to be looking at.

Jeeves went about the usual sort of business to get my things ready for the day, biffing off to set up my shaving kit, shimmering over at the exact right moment to take the tray away when I wasn’t wanting it anymore, and picking over my wardrobe for something fine to wear. Regrettably, this was where my man, ever the paragon in all other things, blundered. 

“Sir,” he said with the precise tone of a man discovering the remains of a bag of sweets in the back of a naughty child’s toybox.

“Jeeves,” I replied, not at all like a child who’s stashed the bally b. of s. there.

When Jeeves turned around, he had in his possession a perfectly respectable panama hat that just so happened to be made from a bluish, velvet-like fabric. I’d seen it at the shops in Piccadilly Circus and simply couldn’t live another moment without it! The band on it was a striking shade of yellow to set the whole thing off perfectly. The Wooster _tête_ was made by its creator for such a _chapeau_. It wouldn’t do to have another gent snap the thing up!

“Might I, inquire, sir, how this particular… hat”- he said it as if he’d never seen a more disreputable piece of headgear -“came to be in your wardrobe?”

I knew he’d kick. Jeeves always does. I stood and fetched the hat from his grasp before he could burn it up by mere glaring. “I put it there, Jeeves. Is that a problem?”

“Well, sir…”

“Jeeves.” I don’t often like to put the foot down too hard. Jeeves is a marvel! I mean, you’ll never meet a man who knows his fashions better. But he is an absolute mule sometimes on anything even a little _avant garde_. The young master’s foot came down. “I’ll be wearing my new hat out today. Do I make myself clear?”

There was a drawn out pause when I wouldn’t have put it past the man to tell me to go and boil my head - I rather suspected he was thinking it. But, having met with Bertram’s iron will, he relented. 

“Indeed, sir.”


	2. Chapter 2

Ignatius Athelstan Allsopp, however unfortunate his name, was something of a handsome chappie when I encountered him sometime around 11:00 down at the Drones. The only thing really horrible you could find in Iggy's form, as Oofy introduced him, was an unfortunate resemblance to his dear cousin about the face. Were one to look past this insult of heritage, one might make note of Iggy’s _striking_ physique. He looked like a well-put-together Navyman with arms that could probably have bent steel bars, and long, powerful legs that seemed a touch too muscular for the suit he happened to be wearing. In fact, his whole wardrobe appeared to be about a size too small. I wondered if he might have gone through some sort of growth spurt recently. 22 was a bit late for blooming, but I’ve heard stranger things.

As it so happened, the Allsopp _corpus_ was about all that might be mentioned about Iggy without boring a body to tears. He was keen on lifting weights and wouldn’t quit talking about them for the 45 minutes I endured his company in the name of friendship with Oofy Prosser. Throughout this _riveting_ exchange, Oofy, the fiend, biffed himself off to the billiards table, leaving me to suffer the weight-lifter alone. While learning that exercise might be considered eccentric and that I was likely conducting myself in the most egregious form when performing squats was clearly vital information for _me_ , the Prossers of the world had apparently had their fill of such trivia.

I was about ready to fake some sort of fainting spell to escape when Oofy finally returned to rescue me from his cousin’s company. Or so I imagined.

“Iggy, my lad, how are you doing, then?” Oofy inquired, overlooking my own fragile state.

“Brilliant! You didn’t tell me your friends liked weight-lifting!”

Oofy gave me a look like I’d grown a tentacle from my forehead and was waggling it at him. The indignities a gentleman must endure! I smiled at him, throwing into the expression a touch of the ice Mercutio must have felt when casting a plague on the noble houses of Verona. “I think I might take it up, Oofy, old boy. _Frightfully_ fascinating, didn’t you know?”

The blot didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed! Oofy blinked for a moment, then a very unfriendly smile curled up the Prosser lips. “I hadn’t the faintest, Bertie.” There was something calculating his his eyes. I didn’t like it one bit. “But if you’re getting on so _well_ , I wouldn’t _dream_ of interrupting. Wouldn’t you like Bertie to take you to lunch, Iggy?”

My jaw dropped as Iggy crowed delightedly. I was gobsmacked, absolutely gobsmacked, that Oofy Prosser, a man I had known in school, would fob off his tedious cousin on me. It wounded the heart. Never mind Mercutio, Oofy had taken a flying leap into a wholly different script!

Et tu, Brute?

I had about half a second to reassemble the friendly map before Iggy was looking over and pounding my back in excitement. I was just about flung from my seat at the bar for the force. “We’ve got time to talk diets, Wooster!”

I had the restraint to forgo telling Iggy that my diet was perfectly designed to keep me happy and well-fed. And that such might be the only consideration for such a thing in this Wooster's opinion.

Oofy just grinned the grin of the cruel and unusual. “We’ll see you back around 1:30, then. Or later? Bertie’s got all day to learn about weight-lifting, haven’t you, Bertie?”

I gritted my teeth, but he ground in the proverbial knife before I could tell him what a cad he was being.

“Or were you meant to meet Florence somewhere? How _is_ that going, old prune?”

Florence. Lady Florence Craye, bane of the Woosters in her unmarried state. I’d given her the pip more times than I could count - nearly taken her to the altar before it got out that I’d been engaged to both her and Madeline Bassett at the same time - but the beazel wouldn’t let me off.

Florence is the sort of political, progressive girl who imagines she’s got the general moxy and talent to mold any jelly of a man into hardened marble. She’d had her eye set on me ever since she caught me buying a book for my man Jeeves in a shop years ago. I’d told her I was the one keen on Spinoza and matters had slipped into the steepish, then the entirely perpendicular from there. I still sometimes worried I might be able to light up a lamp just from touching it after getting struck by lightning. That’s a story for another day, though. As it was, Florence was back and fluttering her lashes at me after a garden party at the Wickhammersley estate about a week ago.

“You know I could do for a solid round of darts if you’re up for it after lunch, Iggy, old Allsopp!”

“Darts?” Iggy looked more than a little dubious.

“Billiards?” I tried. This earned me only a furrow upon his brow deeper than that canyon the Americans have. The grand one. “Er… a trot around the park?” Really, what else was there to do? I wasn’t about to suggest the man come out to a jazz club with me. A fellow has got a bit of a reputation for the company he keeps and some meaty country fellow in a smallish suit was hardly my usual fare. 

“The park! Ah, good man. They’ve got chin-up bars there, haven’t they?” the Allsopp demanded.

I hadn’t the faintest idea what he meant. “Whole sets of them!” 

“Good man, Wooster.” Another slap on the back accompanied this sentiment.

When I looked back to bid farewell to Oofy, he’d already disappeared. 

It was going to be a very long afternoon.


	3. Chapter 3

We lunched at the Grill Room in the Cumberland Hotel. The fare was solid, and I held out the hope that a properly _London_ experience might set young Iggy off on a new topic of conversation. A fellow does hate to see the old h. dashed.

A bit of a dust up was nearly started when he had the audacity to order for me when the waiter came ‘round. It wasn’t a terrible choice - one can hardly go wrong with a chicken cutlet and vegetables - but it was the principle of the thing. We Woosters have our pride and that rather extends to making the decisions about what we’ll be eating and mentioning as much when we’re out on the town. 

I did manage to edge in with a quick call for a whiskey and soda to have some say in the matter. Iggy pouted his lips before asking for the same. I could see why Oofy wouldn’t want to dine with the blister. Having to eat and drink the same things was more than a little odd.

Conversation once more settled into weight-lifting and the appropriate diet I ought to take up to begin my training regime. I stared at the man, rather slack-jawed, nodding every so often and humming as you do when you’re not paying the slightest bit of attention.

“So, what’s this about a girl?” Iggy’s question threw me so completely off that I missed the plate and stabbed my fork into the table.

“Girl?” More than a little embarrassed, I rallied ‘round to the present and refocused on my lunch companion. I’d drained my w. and s. some time ago - and one following that - but his sat untouched while he meticulously picked apart his chicken. It had been almost fascinating to watch when considering his dreadful conversation.

“Alex said something about a Florence?” 

It took rather longer than it should have for me to connect ‘Alex’ to ‘Oofy.’ “Oh! Florence. Well, you know? Girls!” I didn’t particularly want to discuss my trials and tribulations regarding Florence Craye with Iggy Allsopp.

“That bad?” For once, the man’s face broke into something like human sympathy. It could have warmed the heart if it weren’t so dashed odd seeing it on the map of a fellow that reminded one of Oofy Prosser. I was moved by how moved he sounded, at least.

“She’s a terror.” How else might any cove describe the woman once referred to by the housestaff as Lady Caligula? “I think she must have sworn off me half a dozen times - and really, I shouldn’t mind that in the slightest - but she’s back to mooning over me. I mean, she’s a perfectly nice girl if you don’t mind being told you ought to stop smoking and drinking and generally living with anything like the old _joie de vivre_. I’m sure plenty of love-struck fellows go in for that, what?”

“I run into a lot of those sorts,” Iggy offered with a nod. I could hardly believe it. Did he use weight-lifting to escape all that? It seemed the only explanation! Why else would a chap obsess over that?

“I don’t suppose taking up weight-lifting would chase them off?”

Iggy chuckled. “More like bring them out in droves, old boy!” He sobered up and snorted derisively. “They haven’t got the first idea of their place.” 

I nodded, perfectly understanding him. Well, more or less understanding him. There was a bit more bite to that than most gentleman like to take. A woman’s place is next to her man’s side, of course, rather than running all over him in high-heeled boots. But to hear Iggy’s tone, you might expect them to retire permanently to their drawing rooms and leave the world to its wanting.

“Progressive girls these days, eh? They’ve got all sorts of ideas knocking about the breadbox. Not all of them bad, mind. It’s a fair thing being the ones to dash the hearts of fellows they don’t fancy. Happier marriages are sure to happen.”

He raised a brow and knocked back the entirety of his whiskey and soda in one go. “Certainly! Certainly! But I’d much rather have a progressive man, eh, Wooster?”

I could hardly find fault in the sentiment and expressed as much. This led to a rather more lively conversation on the merits of the modern man and the loss of all the nonsense the Victorians were on about, powdered wigs being the chief enemy. We abused powdered wigs, solicitors, judges, constables, and all members of law enforcement roundly as we both knocked back more drinks. By the time we made it outside, I was completely soused and half leaning on Iggy, the best of the Allsopps (and Prossers, coming right down to it), for support in a chummy fashion. Obligingly, he tilted Woosterward, having got it up the nose himself. So angled, we maintained an upright posish as we charged out into the brighter day. Or we would have if there were a b. d. to be charging out into.

Jeeves’ noted drizzle for the morning was more of a downpour as we shuffled along in three-legged race formation. I had my umbrella, but poor Iggy had left his at Oofy’s. I suggested a bar where we could wile away the afternoon and Iggy, the heart of a true Englishman awoken in him, agreed heartily. We found ourselves at the Lamb’s Leg ordering further drinks. 

Our conversation had turned to Oofy and fact that Iggy thought he was something of a rotten egg, casting him away and imposing on me. “I would have said something, Wooster, but you know how Alex is?” And well did we Woosters know our Alexes… or our Oofys, really. He was a fiend when he wanted you out of his company, dumping you on the nearest unsuspecting chump. Clearly, young Bertram had been looking particularly chumpish this morning.

“Jolly decent of you to take it all up, anyway,” Iggy continued.

“My dear man, think nothing of it!” I rejoined, waving away the compliment whilst simultaneously motioning for the server. “A martini, please, to round it off. How are you doing, old sport?”

“I could do with a top up!”

“Make that two. A perfect set, eh?” I said with a grin as I turned my attention back to Iggy. He had a strange sort of open-mouthed look about him. That is to say, he looked strange. He’d been open-mouthed about half the afternoon, practically whenever I’d tried to get in a word or two. Now, though, Iggy wore the sort of expression one might more readily associate with a lizard who, having lived a long and decent life on flies and worms is considering taking up a wholly vegetarian lifestyle. Deep thoughts were being had in the mind of the Allsopp across from me.

“Wooster.”

“Hallo?” Conversation seemed to fizzle out at this point as the server placed the martinis on our table. We held a happy silence long enough for me fish out the olive with a toothpick and pop it down the hatch.

“Wooster, old boy.”

“Still here.” More or less. I was feeling warmish in the way I get just before taking a restorative repose in the late afternoon every now and again.

Iggy leaned in close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath. “I like you, Wooster. Bertie Wooster.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, old top.” Now that we’d gotten past the weight-lifting strangeness, he really was a regular sort of chap. Thrilling what a glass or ten of the wet stuff will do for a man.

“I’m going to stab Florence Craye for you,” he breathed.

I stared at him, certain I’d misheard. “What, you mean… _stab_ Lady Florence?”

“That’s right.”

“With a knife?”

“Probably. I can do something else if you’ve got it.”

I can’t say I was particularly well-grounded at the moment, head bobbing up amongst the whiskey and gin-soaked clouds, but that sounded like a pretty rummy business to me. Certainly, many’s the frustrated chef who’s probably contemplated taking a cleaver to Florence. One might consider some pointed prodding about _her_ prodding, though, not murder. Was this murder?

“You’re talking about murder.”

“More like a public service.” Iggy nodded gravely and drank down his entire glass in one go. “Come now, have you got a picture of her?”

Into the cups or not, I was starting to twig to the fact that Iggy seemed serious about this stabbing business. “Er… Iggy, old prune, I don’t suppose you’ve, well, done this before.”

“Oh, yes! Four times? Five? You’ve got loads of girls that need putting in their place here.” 

“You wouldn’t happen to be about that sort of business in the altogether... would you?” I could feel the warmth in my tum beginning to drain out, whisked away through my toes to parts unknown on the barroom floor.

“Blood’s wretched to get out of a suit, you know? C’mon then, Bertie. Pictures! Got to get the right girl.” He had his arm around my shoulder now and was leaning into me around our little table.

What the devil is a fellow, juiced up to his eyeballs, meant to do in such circs.? 

Jeeves! Jeeves would know what to do with the villain.

“Ah, well, I’ve got one at the flat. Care to totter along?”

“Righto!” Iggy released me, thank God, and went for what was left in my glass, downing it and rising on wobbly pins. Before I could really refuse, he was dragging me up. I wasn’t in any real shape to be wandering about with the Stabbing Streaker. Or the Streaking Stabber or whatever they were calling him. But blast it, I couldn’t let the fiend escape back to whatever foul hole in the country Oofy and family were keeping him in. I chucked down a few notes to cover the drinks and tip before I was being pulled away.

We nearly made it to the flat, Iggy having gone curiously quiet beside me, before anything went awry. It was still raining, picking up, I shouldn’t have wondered, when he lurched suddenly into the alleyway with the fire escape and threw up behind the bins. Unfortunately, his lurching dragged me along for the excitement what with using the blighter as a prop.

I staggered while he made a lot of wretched noises and started gasping. I shouldn’t like to say I had any sympathy for the devil, but when a man’s bent over, making the contents of his lunch and afternoon drinks known to the world, the heart does quiver for even the meanest miscreants. I patted his shoulder lightly. 

“We’re almost-”

He proceeded to collapse before I could finish. Just a bit rude, of course, but there you have it. 

“Iggy?” I crouched down. He was making sucking noises and clawing at his throat, eyes bulged out like a landed haddock. I can tell you I wasn’t half-alarmed by this latest development. 

“...rink!?” His meaty hand was suddenly clutching my collar and jerking me down hard enough to chin myself on his chiseled shoulder. “Wagh… gin?”

“You want another drink?” I hadn’t the slightest idea what he was on about, but Iggy didn’t seem particularly keen on expounding upon the topic of his latest gin craze. It was about that point that the man started going from pink to an extraordinarily striking shade of vermillion. He kept pulling at my collar, which made it more than a little difficult to roll him over and sort out what the deuce was going on. 

It looked like he couldn’t breathe, like he was having some sort of fit. I should have called for help there and then, but it struck me like a nine-iron to the back of the neck about half a second later what he’d been wailing about. The gin.

“Oh, God… You’re allergic to gin?” Had he ever had a martini? Had he known what he was even _drinking_? We’d both been, and still were, sloshed. “Oh, God! Oh, _God_!” I’d poisoned the man without even meaning to. Calling out to some passerby to help me with the murderer I’d just tried to murder was looking less like a solid case. Did I even have any evidence that Iggy was the murderer? Just the word of a fellow who’d had a snootful.

“Iggy! Iggy, what have I got to get you!?”

By the time I’d run everything through the lemon - soaked as it was - Iggy had quit shaking me and just lay there turning blue in the face. 

“Iggy?!”

“Mr. Wooster?” Walton, the doorman, had come round to check on us and I can tell you I just about jumped out of my skin. 

“Walton!” Without even thinking about it, I whisked off my handsome velvety hat and slammed it down over Iggy’s face. His had had come off and rolled down the alley. 

“Some… trouble, sir?”

“Oh, well, you know? Drink will be the death of us all, won’t it?” My voice had jumped a solid octave, enough to make even the most talented Eton choirboy jealous, I shouldn’t wonder. “Just, ah, h-helping my chum. We’ve been at it all afternoon.”

Walton’s face melted from suspicion to disapproval. “You need any help shifting him, sir?”

“I wouldn’t put you to the trouble, old bean! Come along, Iggy.” I wrapped one of Iggy’s arms around me and tried to stand up. I never really understood the term ‘deadweight’ until I was dealing with the stuff.

Walton looked dubious as I struggled, trying to maintain my grip on the umbrella, situate my own feet, and get Iggy’s body off the ground. Taking pity on me, the man popped over and grabbed Iggy’s other arm, helping get the blighter into the lift. He shook his head as the door closed, and I rose with a corpse toward 3A.

I suspected Jeeves might disapprove of the company I was keeping, but that was hardly anything out of the ordinary.


	4. Chapter 4

You’ll remember the start of our sorry tale: Bertram bursts into the flat, Jeeves fails in the most basic respect for how one might respond to a shock, and matters of murder are discussed between master and servant. Once that all happened, Jeeves had the decency to inquire, “Where might I ask, sir, is the gentleman’s body?”

“He’s out in the hall. The blighter weighs a ton if it’s not two!”

“I see, sir.” Jeeves hied himself over to the door and stepped out while I stood dripping on the carpet and regretting ever meeting Oofy Prosser and his kin. He popped his head back in a moment later looking rather a lot more pale than he had when he’d left. “Sir, if you would assist me?”

I staggered out, stumbling over my own feet to see Jeeves over by the entrance to the lift, knelt by where I’d propped Iggy up. He had his fingers held to the man’s neck.

“The gentleman does appear to have passed on, sir,” Jeeves intoned.

I fell into a boneless slump against the corridor wall, feeling not a little like all the life had gone out of me, as well. Iggy really was dead. 

“Sir, please take the gentleman’s other arm,” Jeeves directed. I followed along numbly, doing as asked, and we managed to get the body into the flat and onto the floor beside the Chesterfield before I laid out the whole sorry story for my man. I might have babbled just a touch, but most of the salient points got into it. If salient is the word I want.

“Oh, Lord, Jeeves! What are we going to do?” I asked, shoving my head into my hands in true despairing fashion.

“A call to the authorities would seem to be in order, sir,” Jeeves suggested. “If Mr. Allsopp is the Stabbing Streaker, they may wish to know he has been apprehended.”

I grimaced and looked up, realizing I’d left out a rather key bit of information. “Ah, well, um… he-he never actually showed me any proof.”

“You have reason to doubt the veracity of the gentleman’s statements, sir?” 

“No, but… what sort of evidence _would_ there be?”

Jeeves paused for long enough to make me worry. “I could not say, sir. Having only your description of the gentleman’s character, he may have been meticulous enough to dispose of the implements he used during his unsavory excursions.” He glanced down at Iggy, his brow furrowing just the tiniest bit. “Is Mr. Allsopp expected back with Mr. Prosser in the near future, sir?”

I shook my head. “Not until dinner, at least, but he’s hardly going to get any _less_ dead by th-”

I broke off when the bell went at the door. It was followed up by rather insistent knocking while Jeeves and I stared at one another. “Sir, it may be prudent to take some action to the effect of propping Mr. Allsopp’s body in such a fashion as to convey fleeting slumber rather than anything more permanent.”

We each grabbed an arm and all but threw Iggy onto the Chesterfield, arranging him to something like sitting. The body wouldn’t stay up, though. “Adopting the pose of a pair of gentlemen in a drunken stupor may be sufficient for the moment, sir,” Jeeves suggested. I probably would have told him that he ought to try posing with a stiff bird on a sofa whilst some beastly person battered on the door, but I was much too frightened by that point. I pulled the velvet hat down over Iggy’s face, plopped down beside him, wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pulled him in to lean on me.

“Jeeves, what _ever_ took so long?” I heard an all too familiar voice demand while I pretended at snoring.

“I apologize, Lady Florence,” Jeeves returned, voice calm and soothing. “I was attempting to rouse Mr. Wooster and his guest. They arrived home in an advanced state of inebriation not ten minutes ago.”

“ _Inebriation_?!” Florence tore into the flat with the force of a gale. “Bertie!”

I feigned sleep as long as I could, but it did become rather difficult once Florence grabbed me by the tie and began to shake.

“Gah! Florence!”

“Bertie, you _reek_ of alcohol. What have you been doing all day with this… this…” Florence trailed off as she turned her lion's gaze to Iggy’s corpse. Her eyes ran up and down over his body a few times before releasing my tie. “Who _is_ this?” 

“Mr. Ignatius Allsopp, Lady Florence,” Jeeves stepped in smoothly. “I fear Mr. Wooster’s influence has left him most distressed.” _My_ influence? I cast a glare from behind Florence’s back when she turned to look at Jeeves. “I had planned to assist Mr. Wooster and Mr. Allsopp in retiring presently. I do apologize, miss. They may prove very poor conversation at the moment.”

“Ignatius…” Florence touched her fingers to her lips briefly. “Yes, well, tell your master to ring round with his friend as soon as he’s awake. We have matters I wish to discuss!”

“Certainly, Lady Florence. Will that be all, miss?”

“Yes, Jeeves. Bring me my umbrella.”

“Of course, miss.”

And like a hurricane over the Atlantic, Florence blew herself out of my flat, trailing destruction in her wake. As soon as I heard the door shut, I shoved Iggy away, and he slumped over the arm of the Chesterfield while I shuffled away. “My influence, Jeeves?” I demanded.

“Sir?”

“What the devil was that about?” Even baked, boiled, and fried, I knew an insult to the character when I heard it. “Florence is going to think I’m some frightful sort of cad, corrupting ‘innocent’ Iggy Allsopp.”

“That contingency did not escape my consideration, sir.”

“And did you ever think that she might just… might just call off the engagement?” My eyes were opened to the world of Jeeves’ brilliance. “Jeeves! If she thinks I’m awful, and that Iggy’s not, she’ll give me the bum’s rush.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Hold on, though. Did you just make Florence Craye fall in love with a _corpse_? How are we going to keep that up, man?”

The small smile quirking Jeeves’ lips faded. “A more lively gentleman may be procured elsewhere in due course, sir. I think, perhaps, we may wish to work on uncovering evidence of Mr. Allsopp’s villainy in the meanwhile.”

“But what about the body?”

“I believe I have an idea, sir.”


End file.
